Revolver

by Duane Swierczynski

  “Drive, drive drive!” Wildey is shouting at him.

  “Did we just assault two inspectors?”

  “No,” Wildey says, “we most certainly did not.”

  Jim Treads Lightly

  November 5, 1995

  Tread lightly.

  Good advice, despite the source.

  As much as Jim would like to nail Sarkissian for this, he knows it doesn’t fit. Sarkissian has an alibi for the rest of the night and morning—home with his family in Narberth. Doesn’t mean he’s in the clear, but nothing about it feels right.

  So Jim goes back to his timeline of Kelly Anne Farrace’s last twenty-four hours alive and again considers the mysterious JDH. Those initials match no one at the magazine, nor anyone in Kelly Anne’s circle of friends. He realizes he has to go back to Circa. See if anybody can remember Kelly Anne leaving. And if so—was she alone?

  But now the hard part: selling this to Claire.

  “You’re just upset that Audrey kicked your Sorry! ass.”

  “It’s true. I lose one more time to my five-year-old daughter, I won’t be able to show my face around town.”

  A wounded expression shows on Claire’s face for an instant before she smiles. Jim reviews what he said, trying to figure out what upset her.

  “You sure this is about the girl’s murder,” she says. “Or would you rather not be here?”

  “I want to be here,” Jim says. “You know that.”

  Claire doesn’t answer, which is her way of disagreeing with her husband. She claims she’s over what happened five years ago, but the old suspicions emerge now and again. Especially when the job takes him away from home more hours than usual.

  “Go,” she finally says. “Otherwise you’re going to mope around here like a bear with a sore butt.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and kisses her forehead.

  At Circa Jim orders a tonic and lime, starts chatting up the waitstaff. He recognizes a few faces from Wednesday night. But no one remembers Kelly Anne, let alone her leaving. A check of Wednesday’s receipts reveals nothing—apparently, Sarkissian bought all her drinks. Halfway through the pile Jim sees his own card receipt there. Somehow he spent $89. He thought he’d popped in here for one drink, then moved on. How had he spent that much?

  (Because one doesn’t do it for you anymore, Jimmy. You know that. Takes at least three to make a dent in that armor of yours. Or turn you into a real killer…)

  Briefly he considers taking his receipt, pocketing it, so that no one will know he was ever here. Some defense attorney could have a lot of fun with this. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you know who else had a drink in the same bar as Kelly Anne Farrace the night she died…

  No. He’s not that kind of cop. The receipt stays.

  Jim steps outside Circa into the cold November night. Walnut Street is sleepy. Not many pedestrians.

  Help me out here, Kelly Anne.

  You stepped outside—were you with someone, or were you alone?

  We’re only a few blocks from your apartment. Did you go home, get lonely, then call someone over?

  Or did you in fact just go to bed so you could rise early the next morning for a jog before work?

  Jim stands on Walnut Street, watching kids leave the bar. Some in pairs or triplets, some alone. So carefree. They’re all so impossibly young, and they have no idea what’s out there in this city.

  Wait wait.

  “Thirty Under Thirty.” The last piece Kelly Anne was reporting. Working alongside her mentor, Sarkissian. She wasn’t out here socializing. She was out working. Nine p.m., the family man has to go home, but the young aspiring writer is still on the beat. Maybe she met up with an interview subject.

  Jim hurries over to Kelly Anne’s apartment, flashes his badge at the super, gains access. CSU has been and gone, but that doesn’t matter. He searches through her cluttered little desk until he finds the file folder containing the legal pad he was hoping to find. Her notes on the “Thirty Under Thirty” package. She was the kind of girl who brought her work home with her. This job was her life.

  He spins through the names of candidates, looking for his match:

  Max Kennedy. Carolyn Odell. Lisa Jablonski. Eric Lindros. Jeff Steen. Traci Lynn Burton. Jeffrey Gaines. Jim’s just north of forty and he has no clue who any of these people are. Well, Lindros, sure—he’s a Flyer. (Though hockey’s not Jim’s thing.) But come on, where’s the Mysterious Mr. JDH?

  And then, scribbled on the legal pad:

  John DeHaven.

  The name fits.

  But who the hell is John DeHaven?

  Kelly Anne’s notes don’t shed much light on it.

  pol

  Politician?

  fundraising genius

  Young guy from money, then. The smartest fundraisers always seem to be people born into loads of the stuff.

  If you’re such an up-and-comer, Mr. DeHaven, why didn’t you up and come forward when Kelly Anne turned up dead in a stairwell?

  easy on the eyes

  So an attractive rich guy—and possibly the last man to see Kelly Anne Farrace alive.

  Audrey Goes to Church

  May 14, 2015

  Staś may be the second Walczak to die wearing the badge, but he won’t be counted among the heroic fallen. His name will never be etched onto a skinny brass plate and mounted in City Hall’s courtyard memorial.

  Because her brother’s death is ruled a suicide.

  The past three days have been horrible. Arrangements were made quickly, but nobody knew what else to do except avoid the media. Dad’s house in Mayfair ended up being the unofficial family way station. Cary would drift in and out, just to check on Dad, but ended up lingering to drink the beer in the fridge and do shots of the vodka when he thought nobody else was looking. Even Claire stopped by once, without Will for a change, though she didn’t say much. She didn’t speak to Audrey about anything other than the basics. The funeral will be Thursday. Make sure you wear that dress with the sleeves. The limo will pick you up here at eight.

  Audrey bit the bullet and called the Tennellsons to explain what had happened. They were suspicious until they looked it up on the Internet—as if she’d lie about something like this? They put Bryant on the phone. He said “Dada.” They were teaching him Dada. Wonderful.

  How about Mama? Mama could use a little love right about now.

  Usually a fallen officer receives a massive civic turnout, from the mayor on down. But today St. Matt’s is half empty.

  Audrey is surprised Staś could have a funeral mass at all. She assumed the church denied them to suicides. And it’s not as if they can fudge this with the priest; it’s all over the papers and on the Internet. The church, however, is more understanding and compassionate these days. As the priest explained at the wake last night, none of us know what’s going through an individual’s mind, or what is troubling their soul, in their greatest moment of weakness.

  But still, Staś—what the hell were you thinking the moment you checked into that room and put the gun in your mouth?

  Three days later and Audrey still has no clue. By all accounts he and Bethanne were happy. He wasn’t the best cop in the world, but he had no complaints or scandals dogging him, either. He was a hard worker, loyal, and a loving father.

  This, of course, was all according to the media. Audrey and her older brother were not close at all. Staś basically cut her off when she was fifteen and he found her standing on the fringe of Pennypack Park with her asshole friends, drunk on Natural Light. She’ll never forget the pinching of the steel cuffs around her wrists, his face lit up with the headlights of the prowl cars, eyes narrowed. What the fuck is wrong with you, Aud?

  Fuck you, Stosh!

  Only ten years ago but it feels like a lifetime.

  The Captain looks like a black mountain in his suit. He stands in the front left pew, grasping the wooden rail in front of him, white-knuckling it. Chin up. Eyes locked on the altar. Not once does he glance ov
er at the casket. At Mom. At any of them. Claire is across the aisle, on the right. The body of their older son lies between them like an accusation.

  A half dozen beefy cops, the last few buddies the Captain has left, are scattered in the pews behind him. But there is no family at his side other than Grandma Rose, at his left, trembling a little. Meanwhile, on the other side of the aisle, Cary, Jean, Bethanne, and the kids cluster around Claire.

  Audrey stands in the vestibule, not sure where to sit. She typically sides with Claire in these matters. When her parents divorced, her older brothers sided with their mother instantly—Audrey was young and just kind of got swept up in all that. But she’s been living with her father for much of the past week. Either side seems like a slap in the face to the other.

  So she chooses a seat halfway back from the altar, along with the rest of the strangers. No idea who they are—probably just lookiloos. Or reporters. Or parishioners who go to church every day, no matter what’s playing.

  One older lady, though, looks familiar and keeps staring over at Audrey, smiling politely. Yeah, hi, good to see you, too, whoever you are.

  Then it hits her. Right right—she’s the daughter of the ancient bigwig union guy who spoke at the memorial service last week. Lucky her, she gets to attend all the Walczak death services.

  Audrey waves back, totally conscious of how much she’s sweating in this goddamned long-sleeved dress. She’s already worn it three times since she’s been home and hand-washed it once—but obviously she didn’t do that good of a job. Stale perfume and tomato juice seem to rise up from the cloth in cartoon stink lines.

  Ugh.

  “Eternal rest give to them, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon them,” the priest is saying. The incense makes her gag. She doesn’t know how much more of this she can take.

  “Hey, Audrey,” a soft voice says to her. “I’m so sorry. Only found out this morning.”

  Holy crap, it’s Pizza Counter Guy, who’s slid in next to her! He’s wearing a suit and everything, looking suave and cool and perfect despite the heat. And here’s Audrey, a hot mess and a half.

  “Thanks,” she says, and turns her attention back to the end of the funeral. Oh God why. I mean, it’s nice he came and all, but…

  Audrey stares up at the gilded cross mounted over the altar and thinks: If you do exist, you’re both a sadist and one wily deity.

  After the funeral mass the casket is carried out by Cary, a cousin on Claire’s side, and four of Staś’s cop friends. The casket rolls into the back of the hearse. Bethanne and kids are tucked away in a limo. Audrey stands on the sidewalk in front of the church, waiting for the inevitable next step. She wishes she were home. No; she wishes she were in a bar.

  But there’s still the cemetery and then a small thing at Staś’s house.

  And then, she supposes, the inevitable. Home to Houston to face the sad music of her hopelessly messed-up life. She gave her professor the best excuse in the world—cop brother killed himself—but it won’t put her off forever. She’s going to have to come up with something else or fail.

  She watches her father greet the few attendees on their way out, thank them for coming. Union Boss Daughter Lady approaches him but he won’t look her in the eye. He actually turns away, marching down the marble steps away from her. What’s that about?

  The rest of Audrey’s family pile into the waiting limos. Red-eyed Cary stops before he climbs in, gives her a wave. C’mon, we’re waiting for you. But Audrey ignores him and gives her escort an elbow in the arm.

  “Hey, Pizza Counter Guy.”

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Any chance you can give me a ride to the cemetery?”

  “Don’t you have your family right there waiting for you?”

  “Eh,” she says. “I’m not a limo kind of girl.”

  Pizza Counter Guy smiles. Shows her the way to his old but pristine Civic. Cary watches them leave, perplexed.

  “You didn’t have to come,” she says as they pull away.

  “Well, I had to give you grief in person for not telling me about what happened to your brother. I wish you’d talked to me.”

  “You’re probably the only Protestant deacon in the world who would come to a Catholic funeral mass to give someone grief.”

  They pull away and follow the funeral procession. Someone’s helpfully stuck one of those magnetic flags on the hood. They fall in line. Audrey eases back into the seat, flips the AC on full blast. She’ll enjoy it while she can. Pizza Counter Guy says nothing.

  “Okay, okay, what’s your name? I can’t go introducing you to my family as Pizza Counter Guy.”

  “Lord, at last. I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Shut up already and tell me.”

  “It’s Barry.”

  “Really? It’s Barry? Barry as in the president?”

  “Yeah. Well, no, not like the president. It’s short for a longer name that I ain’t gonna tell you. But for the record, my last name is K—”

  “No,” she says, putting a finger to his lips. “No last names. I don’t want to get too personal.”

  They follow the hearse up to the national cemetery over in New Jersey. Grandpop Stan is there alone, as he’s been since 1965. Now, a half century later, he’ll finally have company—a grandchild he never met. Hey, you look sort of familiar. Who the hell are you again?

  The grave has already been opened up. Her father, the Captain, poises himself on the edge, as if he’s about to fling himself into it.

  The crowd is much smaller than at the mass. Looks like just her family, along with some of Grandma Rose’s relatives who drove or flew in for the burial and some of Staś’s colleagues. Audrey stands in the back, as if just a spectator. Barry stands by her side, head bowed, one hand covering the other. The sun is bright and hot. So much for the cliché of a stormy funeral where the skies open up just as the final prayers are uttered.

  After the brief service they put Staś down into the ground above Grandpop. Some people cry. The Captain stares down into the open grave, saying nothing.

  Audrey wants to go up and hug him, or something. But she’s afraid he’ll turn around with a puzzled look on his face.

  Eventually they drift away. Jesus, Audrey thinks. Did all this just happen?

  She lingers at the grave. Down there is the casket containing the ninety-one-year-old body of Stanisław Walczak, forever paused at the age of forty-one. Open the casket, Audrey thinks, and there would be the face of my grandfather. With the six feet of dirt removed, this is the closest Audrey will ever be to him.

  And this is the awful thought she has—God strike her dead for this. This is not the time, she tells herself; her stupid independent project is dead.

  But if you were to open that coffin and examine his fifty-year-old corpse, would you discover the two bullet holes in the back of his skull, which is the official story? Or would his bones tell you something completely different?

  What do you say, Grandpop?

  Stan and Sonny

  March 30, 1965

  Stan’s dead asleep when he hears the knocking on the front door. It’s too early for his shift, isn’t it? Where’s Rosie? He rolls over.

  There’s more knocking, though. Insistent now. Goddammit. If this is his partner with another “development” he’s going to be pissed.

  He pulls on his pants, shuffles down the hallway. Jimmy is in his bedroom, listening to loud music when he should be doing homework. It’s an argument Stan doesn’t need right now. The songs are so loud they bleed through the headphones. That Bob Dylan guy. Stan honestly doesn’t know how his boy can stand listening to him. Singers used to have to be able to sing on pitch. But now all the old crooners are considered lame. If you can scream into a microphone, you’ve got a career.

  Or maybe Stan’s just cranky because he was woken up prematurely.

  Down the stairs, to the front door, shuffling in bare feet. Stan opens the storm door and sees a face through the screen he hasn’t
seen in a long time.

  Jimmy’s headphones are on while he’s doing math problems, which to his mind, is the only reasonable way to do math problems on a boring Tuesday afternoon. He’s listening to the new Dylan, which he’s just discovered and is loving. The bombast of “Maggie’s Farm” gives way to “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” and for a second there he swears he hears his own name in the mix.

  No, it’s not on the album. It’s coming from downstairs. His pop, shouting up the stairs at him.

  “Jimmy, for Christ’s sake!”

  He slips off his headphones.

  “Sorry, Pop! Coming!”

  And he starts to rise but Pop says, “Stay there. Tell your mom I’ll be back in a few. Do your homework!”

  Jimmy sits back down, confused. Dylan croons through the headphones. Where is Pop going? It’s not time for his shift yet. Downstairs, the front door slams shut. After a moment’s hesitation Jimmy pushes aside the math homework and runs to his parents’ bedroom and pulls the curtain aside just in time to see his father walking next to some guy, roughly the same height and build, wearing a hat cocked to one side. Dad’s in his trousers and T-shirt.

  All parents have ESP, Jimmy believes, and his pop is no exception. Pop turns back to look up at the window and gives Jimmy a wave. Not to say hello, but to urge him back to his math problems. The guy in the hat turns to look, too. His face is familiar to Jimmy, but he can’t place it. Then they’re out of view, heading up Bridge toward Jackson. Who was that guy?

  Jimmy stares at his math problems for a while before realizing—wait, I don’t have to do this. He closes the book and picks up his guitar. He’s still trying to figure out the lick to the Stones’ “The Last Time.” There’s a twang he can’t quite get right. His pop is tired of hearing it and has pretty much banned him from playing it. So he saves it for when Pop’s working. Or for times like now, when he steps out of the house and Jimmy doesn’t feel like doing his stupid homework anymore.